


The Secrets That You Keep

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Facials, Guilt, Gun Kink, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Infidelity, M/M, Object Insertion, S&M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Weak," he muttered, stroking Marius through the trousers. "And yet so hard for me. How long have you been waiting for someone to see you for what you are?" He cupped the boy's hardness and squeezed. "To give you what you deserve?"</p><p>(Or: Marius and Javert both have secret kinks they feel terribly ashamed of. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they can act them out with each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets That You Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks (?) to Esteliel for being a terrible enabler and to Stripy for reassurance and beta-reading. Uh, happy barricade day? *hides*

i.

Marius is on his knees, choking on the thick length shoved into his mouth. Helpless, desperate, trembling; a wretch indeed, and what would they say if they could see him now, what would his father have said, could he have seen him now --

"Go on," the man in front of him says, each syllable dripping with derision. "Take it, you little slut. That's all you're good for."

Such vile words, like something from one of those pornographic stories he used to translate. Vile words, and yet they excite him, make him grasp the man's hips, force himself open to take more, more, even more, feeling the impossible slide down his throat. 

There's a rough groan above him, a muttered, "That's better." A large hand fists itself in his hair, the sting of it filling Marius's eyes with tears, and how terrible is it to be so debased, how terribly good to be given all of this. He has nothing to hide from this man, who has seen the worst of him, drawing out the wretch inside Marius with each brutal thrust.

"You are a failure," Javert murmurs, pulling back for a moment. His cock leaves Marius's mouth with an obscene wet sound. Marius sputters and gasps for air. There is no pity in Javert's eyes, no kindness, and that is how it should be. 

"A failure. You let your own father die, didn't you? And as if that wasn't enough..." For a moment that hard voice breaks a little, almost imperceptibly. "You almost let _him_ die as well. The best man you ever set eyes upon. The man who gave you everything. Your life. Your wife."

Marius nods, throat sore and heart pounding, for it is true, shamefully so, and Javert will not spare him this truth. Javert will let him taste every measure of it, drive it into him with harsh movements and harsher words until Marius is left a quivering, broken mess, reduced to the very essence of his being. 

This is why they are here, late at night in Marius's study. This is why Javert has come, slipping silently through the back door like a servant. This is why: because there is nothing between them but debts and guilt, nothing between them to cherish or exalt. There is nothing to be lost from Javert's truths, there is only raw naked release to be gained. 

Javert's hand fists in his hair once more, pulling his face up to look him in the eye. His eyes are those of a cobra, cold and ruthless and posed to strike, but his grin is that of a wolf, ready to devour its prey.

"Beg for it," Javert says, his voice as cold as his eyes. "Beg for me to give you what you deserve."

"Please..." Marius licks his swollen lips. Oh, for shame, he can't even speak clearly for the pounding in his head and between his legs. "Monsieur, please, do to me as you see fit."

Javert's cock is still bobbing hard and gleaming close to his face, and now Javert grips it with his free hand, trailing the tip over Marius's cheek, deliberately avoiding his mouth. Marius tries to lean into it, but Javert is holding him so fast it hurts when he moves; he lets out a whimper at the feeling of wet trails on his burning skin. 

"You're so hungry for it," Javert whispers. "So hungry for my cock." He pauses. "Maybe you shan't have it after all." 

At those words Marius almost sobs, because he doesn't know what more he can do: he will beg, he will plead, he will prove himself desperate and humbled, and he knows that this is what Javert desires, that Javert wants his pleas just as much as Marius wants Javert's cruelty. They both indulge each other, that is what they _do_ , that is the beginning and the end of this whole sick thing between them, and if Javert won't do that anymore, if Javert is going to taunt him and then fail him, like Marius himself has failed...

"Please," he croaks again. "Please, sir, I'll do anything!"

Suddenly, Javert releases him so that Marius falls forwards, catching himself on all fours. His prick is aching and eager between his legs, his throat is still raw from Javert's cock, and he is almost trembling with anticipation and dread; surely Javert will not leave him like this, he thinks, surely Javert still wants this as much as Marius does.

Then Javert is behind him, large hands reaching around to work his trousers open. A few seconds later, and he is lying there bared, face down and arse up, and Javert's hands curve relentless around his buttocks, spreading him. Marius pants into the carpet -- the fine carpet of the study his grandfather has gifted him with, and what a terrible disgrace he would be in Monsieur Gillenormand's eyes, if anyone knew what goes on in here tonight -- and now a thick finger is prodding at his hole, prying him open. This is torture, this is Heaven, he can do nothing but raise his hips and spread his legs as far as they will go. 

Javert opens him with nothing more than spit; it's not the first time, and he welcomes the burn and stretch of that relentless invasion, tries pushing back onto those fingers, wanting the pain as much as the pleasure. Even so, when the fingers are replaced with something hard and cool, he freezes, and Javert chuckles darkly behind him. 

"Not used to this, are you, Monsieur le baron? But that doesn't matter. You will take it because I say so. Because you want it. Because you know it's no more than you deserve."

Oh God, it is true, and he presses his forehead into the carpet, his own breath loud in his ears as the cudgel is pressed into him, as hard and cruel and relentless as Javert himself. This cudgel is the truth, splitting him open and apart, and he moans and he whines and he pushes back, desperate for more, eager and ashamed, and Javert laughs again. 

"That's it, that's it," he mutters, thrusting the weapon into him, pulling it back a little, then thrusting it back in, hard and deep. Marius yelps, arching his back. "Look at you, taking it so easily." Thrust. "It burns, doesn't it?" Thrust. "Tomorrow you'll hardly be able to walk. You'll think of yourself, here on the floor, you'll think of being filled like this, of getting everything you wanted, and you'll remember begging for it." 

The words burn, the thrusts burn, and Marius is crying now, desperate and broken, pathetic in truth, and he is writhing on the hard rod inside him, pushing back against it, clawing at the carpet, desperate for it to be over, for it never to be over, for Javert to give him all he begs for and all he never knew he wanted, and it's too painful, too terrible, too good --

He doesn't realise Javert has let go of the cudgel, moving to rest on his knees in front of him, before that large hand curves around his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Javert's prick pokes at him again, leaving wet smears on his cheek, and Marius turns his face against it as much as Javert will allow, licks at it desperately until finally Javert lets him have it, sliding into Marius's open mouth with a grunt. 

"There, there," Javert murmurs, his voice breathless but still smug, and Marius can hear the wolf's grin in his voice. "Take it all, be useful for once in your life..."

He moans around the hot length filling him, clenches around the hard rod inside him, his face wet with tears and saliva and fluid from Javert's prick; pain sears through him with each rough and relentless thrust; he's whimpering with it, and with the terrible pleasure, and he might come any second, he has no control, he is a shameless creature, a wretch, a wreck -- 

What _would_ she have said, his Cosette, if she could see him now?

 

ii.

The shack is dark when he lets himself in, but Javert needs no light to make his way towards the bed: he knows his way as well as he knows his own small lodgings, even without the faint sound of Valjean's breathing. 

Standing next to the bed, he pauses. Valjean is fast asleep, lying splayed on his back, white hair illuminated by the moonlight falling through the window. His expression is open and unguarded, smoothed out by untroubled rest. The night is warm enough for him not to wear his nightshirt, and the sheets tangle around his chest, leaving his arms and shoulders bare. 

Javert watches him, his heart expanding with every breath Valjean takes. Naked tenderness swells in his breast until he can bear it no longer and sits down next to him, reaching out to smooth a stray lock of hair away from his brow. 

He searches himself for guilt and finds nothing. In this moment, his fingers lightly tracing the fine lines in Valjean's face, all he feels is relief. Now that his lowly desires have found an outlet, now that the beast inside him has collapsed with exhaustion, at least for the time being, he feels less unworthy of Valjean's love than before, like a sinner cleansing himself before entering the temple. 

No danger, now, of waking the beast, of having that terrible urge within him rear its head, making him making him want to hiss hateful taunts in Valjean's ear, to see that beloved body cower before him.

Nausea wells up in him at the thought. He pulls away a little and takes a deep breath. Behind him Valjean sighs and stretches, but remains asleep.

No, Javert thinks. No. He is not a good man: this is the proof. A good man would have no such desires in him. But if he is not a good man, he is still a man in love. He would cut off his own arm before letting the beast loose at Valjean, who would deserve such a thing least of anyone.

But not even the boy -- and here Javert has to take another breath, a hint of guilt creeping into him at last. No, not even Marius Pontmercy, that earnest young dolt of a lawyer, deserves to be treated in such a way. Not even if he thinks he does, not even if he wants to be. To have him on his knees, to subdue him, to degrade him, to make him cry and beg and whimper with discomfort... No man should do such a thing to another. 

It is the beast inside Javert that rejoices in terrible, heated glee at Pontmercy's tears; it is not his heart, inadequate as it is, that bids him do such a thing. And if he is being honest with himself, he was aware of the beast long before the heart: standing in the sun of Toulon, heat on his back and heat within him, watching the prisoners getting flogged, sometimes bringing down the whip himself -- can he truly say he was ever dispassionate, that any thrill he felt was merely due to the fulfilment of what he believed to be justice?

He cannot remember if he ever struck Valjean himself. The uncertainty will always haunt him, but perhaps it is better this way; he isn't sure he could have borne the knowledge, for the mere possibility revolts him. If this is the sort of creature he is, Valjean should never have let him into his life, let alone his bed. But his heart, that wooden old thing, has been found and kept by Valjean -- and Valjean cherishes his heart, nourishes it with his smiles and his words and his gentleness. For Valjean's sake, at least, Javert must believe himself a man and not a beast. 

Rising to his feet, he quickly undresses. Pontmercy always offers him water to wash after their games, albeit in curt tones and with downcast eyes, but Javert is always in a haste to leave once the thrill is over, and never takes the time to do more than remove the most obvious traces from his skin. Now he lingers at the washstand, meticulously cleaning his face, his hands, his arms, his chest. The cloth carries Valjean's scent, and he spends several long moments breathing against it, beginning to feel at peace once more.

At last he slips into bed next to Valjean, careful not to wake him. It is still tempting, even though the evening has left him tired. The mere thought of Valjean's touch is enough to stir the embers of desire within, but it is a desire altogether different from the one he indulged earlier. This desire is as much for Valjean's soul as it is for his body, as much for his smile and the warmth in his eyes as it is for those moments when they lose themselves to one another, sweaty and breathless and overcome. 

Valjean will touch and be touched in return, he knows Javert's body as intimately as Javert knows his; each has been on his back for the other, but there is no degradation in it. What Valjean offers is love, and love is all Javert wishes to give him in return. Between them there is no room for the darkest of his urges, that lingering brutality that haunts him, a mocking reminder of the sort of man he has been and still is. 

Pontmercy, God forgive him, makes it easier and harder. This thing between them, this shameful damning thing, brings out the beast and quells it, though not forever. 

He presses his lips to Valjean's neck, breathing in the scent of his hair. There is nothing he would not do for him, and yet he is incapable of giving up these trysts. It should be a contradiction; perhaps it is, but it does not feel that way. He is unleashing the monster on someone who does not want the man, someone who has no love for him. His heart is for Valjean: let Pontmercy have the beast.

 

*

 

He remembers the first time well enough.

Valjean being invited for dinner at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; Javert coming with him, not out of any inherent desire but because he could sense Valjean wanted it. After the dinner, the girl asked Valjean to walk with her in the garden -- Javert, as well as everyone else, could tell they wanted to be alone. So there he was, left to make awkward conversation with Monsieur Gillenormand and his daughter, when the young baron cleared his throat and timidly asked if Javert would accompany him to his study, for there was a matter he wished to discuss. 

Javert obliged, rather puzzled by the request. As soon as the door fell shut behind them Pontmercy gave him a long look, swallowed, and bent to retrieve something from a drawer in his desk: a wooden box. He opened it, then held it out for Javert to see. Inside were two small pistols. 

"There," Pontmercy said, his voice almost defiant. "Now our old debt is settled."

Javert took out one of the pistols, examining it. In truth, he had forgotten about that affair. So many far more important events had taken place since then, but now his memory stirred. The Gorbeau house -- yes. Patron-Minette. The escaped victim who, it had turned out, had been Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean, who had only escaped thanks to Javert's intervention. 

A flash of hot and cold went through him at the thought of what could have happened. If those thugs had not been interrupted, Valjean might be dead, or worse.... And had not Marius Pontmercy been there to see it all? Had he not promised to warn Javert, and then failed? 

Anger started boiling in his stomach. To think that Thénardier, that most abominable of creatures, had come so close to hurting a man who was above him in every way -- yes, above them all -- because this dolt of a lawyer had not seen fit to warn him, Javert? Who certainly had been too blind himself to see Valjean for who he was, but that was beside the point. Marius Pontmercy had been not only irresponsible, but cowardly. Yes, a coward.

And that was not all. Had not Pontmercy tried to prevent Valjean from seeing his daughter, the one thing he could not live without? Had not Valjean come close to death before Javert had discovered what was happening? 

"No," he heard himself saying, taken aback by the hardness in his own voice. "No, I don't think our debt is settled."

Pontmercy blinked, then coloured lightly. His eyes darted towards the pistol in Javert's hand, then back up, warily. "How so?" 

The pistol was not loaded, of course, and even if that were the case, the boy would certainly have had nothing to fear from him. But that nervousness, that quivering of his voice -- it stirred something he thought lay buried, a different kind of heat that now mingled with the anger. The desire to watch a wrong-doer quail, brought low in face of justice, to see him writhe like the wretch he was...

Before he knew what he was doing, he had pointed the pistol right between Pontmercy's eyes. The boy swallowed visibly, but did not pull away -- an attempt at bravery, or something else?

"You remember what happened," Javert said. His voice sounded cool to his ears, at odds with the fire rising within him. "You remember how I told you to fire the pistols, to call for me. Well: you did not. And you remember who was there, captured and bound by that filth." He pressed the barrel into the boy's brow, knowing it must hurt. "Isn't that true?" 

A low choked sound escaped from the boy's lips. His eyes immediately widened in mortification, and Javert in turn drew in a short breath. 

"You want this," he whispered. "You have been waiting for it."

He halfway expected a protest, but none came. Denial, Javert thought. Denial -- or agreement?

What he did next was as shocking to himself as it must have been to Pontmercy. Slowly, he moved the pistol downwards until it rested against the youth's pink mouth. "Go on," he said, voice low. "Open up." 

It was insane, of course. Surely the boy would be well within his right to shout for the servants, to have Javert thrown out of the house, never to set his foot there again. That was what any reasonable person would have done, and Javert would not have blamed him. 

But Marius Pontmercy did none of these things. Marius Pontmercy did as he was told, opening his pretty young mouth with a soft sigh, and in that moment Javert knew there was no turning back.

He watched, mesmerised, as pink lips parted to let the barrel slide inside, as Marius moaned around the intrusion, his eyelashes quivering, his cheeks flushed. The sight was obscene in more ways than one, and Javert had to resist grasping the boy's neck with his free hand, forcing him to take more. Instead, he reached between his own legs, cupping the beginnings of his arousal through the fabric. 

"That's right," he breathed, as much to himself as to Marius. "Take it. Take it, see if you can use a gun after all..."

Insane indeed. Surely any time now the boy would come to his senses, reeling backwards, sputtering and cursing. Surely he must realise that there was no sense in allowing Javert to debase him in this manner, that it was the beast within Javert making him do this, that no man, however flawed, should enjoy such a thing -- should get aroused by it!

For there was no mistaking Marius's groans as the barrel slid in and out of his mouth, or the flush of his cheeks, the pliant tilt of his head. His eyes were half-closed and dazed, as though he himself could not truly believe what was happening; but his posture was the very essence of submission, and Javert felt himself respond, hardening further, a dark force within him awakening, wanting and waiting to take, to break. 

"I could kill you like this," he said softly. "I know how to load a pistol, even if you don't. Who would be able to stop me? Certainly not you." He moved his hand to Marius's groin, felt him eager and hard under the fabric of his trousers. "Because you are weak."

Marius made a mortified noise around the barrel, bucking into Javert's hand. Javert could feel the terror of his own grin.

"Weak," he muttered, stroking Marius through the trousers. "And yet so hard for me. How long have you been waiting for someone to see you for what you are?" He cupped the boy's hardness and squeezed. "To give you what you deserve?"

At some point he had slipped into the informal without even noticing. It was the hot urge he felt, the dark desire to degrade, that spoke for him, that steered his hand as he slid the pistol further in, watching Marius's lips stretch obscenely around it. Such pretty lips, he thought dizzily, and such a pretty boy, this rich young lawyer who had been playing at revolution, who had never truly experienced the horrors of the world and yet had dared to look with scorn upon Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean -- and even in this moment his heart twitched with tenderness at this man who was better than him, better than Marius Pontmercy, who had been hurt so terribly and yet had forgiven them both. Could this foolish boy even begin to understand what a gift he had been given?

Abruptly he pulled out the gun, making Marius sputter and choke. Javert gave him no chance to catch his bearings, but shoved him face down on the nearby settee, and though the boy stumbled, there was still no sound of protest. Dropping the gun, Javert yanked down Marius's trousers, then stood panting over him for a moment, his mind reeling. What he wanted to do -- what he was about to do -- it was ludicrous. Surely Marius would finally come to his senses now. 

But the madness clouding his senses made him raise his hand, take aim, then bring down his palm with a sharp brutal smack across the boy's bared buttocks. Marius gasped in shock, hands curling around the edge of the settee. "Monsieur...!"

Javert pushed his shirt upwards, dragging a finger along his spine. "What was that?" he said breathlessly. "Are you complaining?"

"No," Marius panted, raising his hips a little. Ludicrous was the word, though Javert was far too hard and eager to see anything comical in the situation, and he could tell Marius was too. No laughter in this, no jest, only sharp and naked pain, the pain of a truthful lesson: that was how it should be. 

"You deserve this," he muttered, slipping his finger under Marius's shirt to feel the smooth skin. No scars on his back, no inescapable remainders of unbearable suffering. "My hand on you, like the brat you are." 

A choked moan was the only response. Again Javert's hand landed on his buttock with a sharp slap, and the boy whimpered, arching his back. Tears were spilling forth, getting caught in long eyelashes and running down his cheeks, but he remained acquiescent there on the sofa, only trembling a little as Javert traced the red marks left by his own hand. 

"This is no more than you deserve," he murmured, then grabbed a fistful of Marius's hair. "Isn't that right?"

The boy gasped in pain, but nodded fervently, as much as Javert's grip allowed. Javert took in the sight of his wet face and the half-open mouth, red from biting his lips, and grimaced. "Pathetic."

He let go, and Marius slumped down, still panting, muttering something into a cushion.

"What's that?" Javert said again, aware of how his own voice sounded: harsh, sharp, commanding. It was the voice of the man he had been, the man -- oh God, could it be true? -- he still was, at least in part. "People are in the habit of speaking up when they are addressing me."

"Please, sir," Marius whispered, swallowing. "I need more."

"More?" 

Javert grabbed his hair again, turning his face upwards. "Are you such a glutton for punishment? Well, of course you are," he murmured, tracing Marius's lower lip with his free hand. "Such a greedy little pig..."

A wet tongue against his thumb, wide eyes looking up at him imploringly, as if he were some dark powerful angel, sent to give the boy his just penance. Madness, all of it, and yet he could not stop now that this power had been handed to him. 

"Have you ever sucked a cock, Pontmercy?" he said, noting the way the boy's eyelashes fluttered. "Put that mouth to good use? Well, open up now, like you did for that gun; let's see if you are good enough for this."

Once more those pink lips obediently slid apart, and Javert wasted no time freeing his straining prick, pushing the head inside with a groan. Marius's mouth was warm and wet around him, the feeling familiar and strange all at once -- but this was nothing like having Valjean doing it to him, Javert thought with a shiver, no, this was completely different. He would always touch Valjean in love and not in punishment; he would never wish to see him like this, with tears trailing down his cheekbones, his face red with shame...

Marius's teeth scraped clumsily against him, and Javert yelped. "Careful!" he snarled, tightening his grip in Marius's hair and pulling hard. "Can't you even do this right?"

A whimper of pain, a garbled sound around his flesh. Javert thought it might have been _Forgive me._

But he was not in a position to forgive, he was not doing this to be merciful. He was relentless, and hard, harder than steel, and his prick was throbbing, his heart was pounding at the sight of the boy broken and brought low in front of him. "Forgive you, that's rich," he panted, pulling out of his mouth for a moment, only to ruthlessly push back inside, making Marius cough. "That's not even what you want. You want to be put in your place, don't you, you pathetic brat?" 

He wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore, pleasure building hazy and hot throughout his being, thrusting in and out of Marius's mouth as he kept his hold on the boy's hair. "Should I come in your mouth?" he muttered. "I could do that, I could make you take all of it, make you take it and swallow. Would you like that? Of course you would. You'd swallow every drop and beg for more, wouldn't you, you'd whine and cry and plead..."

Marius gave a loud groan around him, his body twitching, and Javert realised he had spent himself. He felt his lips part in a terrible grin, and then pulled out, letting go of Marius's hair. The boy slumped down on the settee, panting, and as he turned his face upwards, dark hazy eyes still wet with tears, Javert took himself in hand, gave a rough violent tug, and came in a hot rush, grunting as he spilled himself all over Marius's cheeks and brow. 

For a moment, he panted in triumphant bliss, his skin still prickling with pleasure. Then he came to his senses, taking in his surroundings clearly for the first time since the blood-red haze of lust had clouded his vision and his mind. He was standing over the settee where Marius Pontmercy -- Valjean's son-in-law, a respected lawyer -- was lying with his trousers down, spent and trembling, his face wet with his own tears and Javert's seed. Javert saw it as clearly as he saw himself, a terrible brute of a man, his spent prick still in hand, the hand he had raised against the boy. 

He flinched back, horrified, tucking himself in. Pontmercy raised his head. Their eyes met, then both looked away. At last the boy sat up, wiping at his face with a handkerchief. "They must be missing us," he muttered. 

"Yes." Javert's voice felt rusty. 

"I will go have a wash. The pistols..." He flushed again, then looked down. "They are at your disposal, Monsieur."

Javert had no idea what to say. He was flushing in turn, still shocked by what had happened. He waited until Pontmercy had left, then sank down on the settee, burying his face in his hands. 

What had they done? What had _he_ done? He did not know. All he knew was that he felt doomed, whether or not it would ever happen again.

 

*

 

In the end, that is what it all comes down to.

The beast is still within him; it cannot be exorcised, only appeased. And Marius Pontmercy has a beast of his own, driving him to seek debasement at Javert's hands. For the moment, they are locked in a terrible agreement, both of them giving the other what he craves, if not what he wants. For the moment, Javert's secret is safe. 

But then there is the question of what Valjean would say, were he to know the truth. 

Javert shudders, imagining it. Valjean pale with horrified revulsion, his eyes dark with hurt at Javert's betrayal. Not merely the betrayal of touching another, no, the betrayal of Javert's own humanity. How could he possibly explain himself, let alone Pontmercy, to this man of all men? How could Valjean ever bear for Javert to touch him again, knowing the beast lurking within? Valjean can forgive almost anything, but not this. Javert would never see him again. 

Another shudder goes through him. Instinctively he tightens his arms about Valjean, pressing his face against his neck. 

"You are mine," he whispers hotly into Valjean's skin. "Mine, mine, always... Do you think I'll ever let you go?"

The realisation of what he is saying, the sheer animal crudeness of it, hits him like a blow, and he forces himself to loosen his grasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, passing a hand over his face. Next to him, Valjean lets out a low sound, before his soft breathing resumes.

Lose him forever, or worse: the thought of Valjean looking at him, with weary resentment, and offering himself up in the boy's place. _Don't do this to him. Take me instead._

No, it does not even bear thinking about. Valjean must never know. 

 

iii.

 

She is pretending to be asleep when Marius slips into bed next to her, close enough for her to smell the scent of soap and fresh cologne on his skin. He has been washing, cleansing himself for her, she thinks, and her heart aches.

Cosette is not sure what it is to hate. She knows there are shadows in the world, but light has always seemed stronger; even now, evil is something she knows first and foremost from the sadness in her father's eyes, the old scars around his wrists. She remembers how he wept when letting her see them for the first time. It had frightened her: not his tears, but the terror behind them, the overwhelming fear that she would jerk away in revulsion. 

As if she could ever be revolted by him. The pain behind those scars, that is a terrible thing, and something different. The horror she feels looking at them is not caused by him, but by what was done to him. She can barely imagine it, though she remembers that time when he came home, half-delirious, a wound seared right into his flesh. If that is the sort of thing he went through... No, it is too horrible to imagine, the mere thought is enough to make her eyes sting with tears. No man should have to go through that. Certainly not him. 

And then there are the men who do that sort of things to others. She knows, now, that the Inspector used to be one of them -- that this is how he and her father met. She also knows that they are friends now, that they care deeply for each other. She can tell as much from the way Javert's eyes follow her father's every move, how they will smile softly to each other when they think nobody notices. Sometimes a strange feeling of jealousy will stir in her chest at the sight, but when it happens she is quick to push it away. She has Marius, she is loved; he deserves to be loved as well. 

And so, she thinks, does Marius, and she longs to reach for him, to move into his arms and cradle his face and kiss his brow. But she is already pretending to be asleep, and she feels as certain as she has ever felt of anything that this is for the best. By pretending, she can feign ignorance. She can allow him to believe that she has not spent these last two hours awake, hands curled into fists as she imagines what must be going on in the room downstairs. 

Many times she has been tempted to break the illusion, and it is still tempting, for this one reason only: he would have to tell her _why._

 

*

 

Cosette is not sure what it is to hate, but the revulsion she feels at the sight of her father's scars is not dissimilar from the revulsion she felt that one time when she snuck downstairs after dark to surprise Marius in his study, to keep him company while he was working because she could not sleep. The revulsion she felt when, the door ajar, she stopped dead in her tracks right before entering because she heard what she should not have heard and saw what she should not have seen. 

Marius on all fours, face red and striped with tears, trousers pulled down around his ankles, his skin red and swollen -- and standing over him, Javert, cudgel in hand, and even as Cosette's hand flew to her mouth, Javert brought the cudgel down again, hard enough for her to hear the blow of wood on flesh; and Marius, her Marius, cried out, and jerked back, and took it. 

It was a sight like something from a dream, stirring some vague memory within her, of stories from the convent but also of something older and more terrible beyond. A wave of sickness rolled through her, and she stared in mute shock, breathing hard and fast through her nose as Javert's cudgel again landed on Marius's bared backside. 

"So," she could hear Javert saying, a terrible smile on his face. "Have you had enough yet?" 

Surely this must stop now, Cosette thought, mind reeling. Surely Marius would come to his senses, would get to his feet, put an ending to this --

"No," he panted, lowering his head, so that she could not see his face. But she saw the flush of his neck, and she could hear him, breathy and overwhelmed. "No, please..."

Javert planted a foot on his hip, sturdy leather boot against pale skin. "Please _what?_ "

"Please, Monsieur," Marius whispered, and she recognised the quiver in his voice, so similar to and yet different from how he would sound at night, stammering awed and adoring words into her ear. This thing that was happening, this thing Javert was doing to him -- it was arousing him, Cosette realised, and her face heated in turn. 

Sickness roiled through her once more, but now there was an additional tinge to it, of something dangerous and disturbing. She watched in horrified fascination as Javert casually shoved Marius onto his back, as Marius's legs fell open to reveal his shame. He lay supine, allowing Javert to step between his legs, throat bared in submission; his lips were red, as if he'd bitten them, and his lashes were dark and wet. 

He was beautiful, frighteningly so, and Cosette kept her hand tight over her mouth so as not to make a sound. Her Marius, who was so good and clever and handsome, whom she adored in every way -- to see him like this, so broken down and vulnerable... She could not look away. 

Javert raised his cudgel once more. His eyes were gleaming with horrific intent, and suddenly she realised that if he were to look away from his prey but for one moment -- yes, prey, there was no other word to describe it -- she might easily be spotted where she hovered in the opening of the door. 

The thought gave her the force needed to break free. As silently as she could, she stole back towards the staircase; then, forswearing all caution, fled upstairs and to her room. 

Once in safety, she stared at herself in the mirror. Eyes dark, hair in disarray, cheeks burning as fiercely as Marius's cheeks had been, and even now the thought of him there on the floor was enough to make her tremble with unwanted excitement. 

Hastily she splashed her face with cold water, took off her dressing gown and slipped into bed. There she forced herself to lie still, counting the quick beats of her heart and praying for sleep to claim her, whilst in her mind she saw it all, over and over: Marius debased and trembling, beautiful and bare. 

When at last he came, she had found release by herself, a release born out of shameful despair. She lay quiet, her breathing calm at last, not yet able to fall asleep; she closed her eyes against her tears as he gently kissed her brow, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The scent of his cologne was stronger than it should have been at this time of night, and she understood he had washed, cleansing himself for her. 

She wanted to cry. She wanted to reach for him, but dared not. She had no words for this, whatever it was. Marius must not have them either, for if so he surely would have told her?

"I love you," she whispered in the darkness, too soft for him to hear. Even now she was sure of it, even now she was sure it was what he needed. But the questions kept returning and returning and would not cease until she finally closed her eyes against them and slept. 

 

*

 

There have been several nights like that one, like this one. Not many -- it does not happen more than once a month, at the most. Oh, it is not rare for Marius to stay up late with his work, but Cosette can tell which nights are different, by his nervousness and his flushes and his strange calm the morning after.

She has not asked him -- yet. Sometimes she will be rougher than usual. Sometimes she will pull his hair and bite his neck, whisper hotly in his ear, and he seems to like it. She is still so very new to this, and so is he, and for all she knows this is not uncommon. But if it isn't, she thinks, wiping away a tear that threatens to spill forth, why wouldn't he tell her?

Cosette is not sure what it is to hate, and yet sometimes she wonders if she hates Javert. But it is hard to hate a man who makes her father smile, who looks at her father as if he were the only man in France, in the whole world. Were it not for Javert, her father would be dead, and so she owes him everything -- but does she owe him Marius?

There is no love between the two of them. That much, at least, she believes to be true. She does not know if she could have shared him with someone who loved him. She already shares her father with Javert; surely that must be enough. 

Does he know? She bites back a sob and wipes at her eyes again. Surely her father can't know. Surely he wouldn't allow it, surely he would make it right somehow. But how can such a thing be made right? Would he blame himself for letting it happen? Would he leave, taking Javert with him? No --

Cosette's mind shies away and then returns to everything that might come to pass, were she to let the secret out. Disaster has many forms, but she cannot spy a possible way out among them. 

Maybe it is true what her father used to say, that some secrets are better left untouched. 

An immense sadness fills her at the thought. She imagines the light in his eyes fading, his smile drying up like a wilting flower. Would he ever again be able to open his home to Javert in friendship? And Marius -- what if his shame will prove too great for him to bear? 

And still there is that awful flame that plagues her, that memory of him so utterly taken apart. Would he ever look that way for her? she wonders, stuffing her fist in her mouth. Not adoring, not loving, but helpless, pained. Would she be able to do that to him, for him? 

Yet another dangerous thought. 

Marius has fallen asleep next to her, she can tell as much from his calm, steady breathing. She turns to watch him in the moonlight. How peaceful he looks. As if he has left all his sufferings behind, there in the study, had them peeled off and tossed away by Javert's brutality. 

"I love you," she whispers again, not afraid of disturbing him in his sleep. He needs to know. She needs to say it. 

Settling down next to him, she leans in to press a kiss to his temple. Perhaps this is what he needs, she thinks, and a strange resigned peace fills her. Perhaps this is all she can do: love him, wait for him, pretend she does not know, that she never saw him there on the floor, naked and ashamed.


End file.
